Eclipse

Red letters are still flickering above the window of the pizzeria. The cashier kisses the waitress under the checkered awning. He is pressing her against the frame of the locked glass door, maneuvering his hands between the buttons of a down jacket, caressing the stitches of a home-made sweater, patterns of pink flowers knitted by an aunt from Bensonhurst. The 11 o’clock bus glides past the vacant lot across the street. No one was waiting to get on. The cashier gets a text message from the boss, reminding him to turn off the neon sign before going home. After one more kiss, the cashier pulls out the keys and goes back inside. The waitress pops a breath mint and touches up her lipstick. As the red bulbs grow dim, she steps away from the the awning to watch smoke drifting from chimneys on the next block. She screams for the waiter to come and look. There is something is different about the sky tonight.